I will feel like a bad country cover of a Kate Bush song.

> One of my favorite reading experiences was a book called "The Silent
> Woman" by the journalist Janet Malcolm; it was about the biographical
> treatments of Sylvia Plath and the impossibility of biography in general.

The stench of my high school ID lanyard hung around my neck like a noose for the rest of the school year, reminding me of my capacity for self-destruction.

Who could trust those colors? Smears of scarlet molting into pert lavender.

Not long after the bugs started crawling out of my sink, the diamond on my engagement ring fell off.

If a middle-aged man sobs in a dark room and nobody is around to hear it, does anyone say, “It’s just a cat. Get over it?”

Ten years ago, I made a temporary move from New York to Cambridge, Massachusetts, for a research fellowship for my novel. Within a month, I met Gino, a tall lawyer with a pronounced Roman nose,

My grandmother screamed when she saw me.

As a baby dyke, I’d waded into sex and romance like a kid at a water park, slowly and then all at once. Now I was on the sidelines.

Half Brits, half Americans. Special Relationship Rule No. 1: Love thy neighbo(u)r.

Two months in, we began to confide our secrets to each other. Her early brush with benzos. My peer-pressure-prone passivity.

To our right, I feel the cool breath of a gaping canyon. It beckons, invisible behind the wall of fog, its voice the skid of tires on gravel.

I get too drunk on a Tuesday night and tell him I want to marry him. We’ve known each other for six years.

I’ve become a puddle on the floor everyone dances around, stares at, hoping to see something.

I pledged to him two things: one, that I would hex the ones that hurt him, and two, that I would write him poetry.

When They Let Them Bleed: Ten Years After

It took me a long time to write “When They Let Them Bleed” – both in the practical sense, in that I recall writing it in very short bursts because it was

They whispered wow wow wow wow in wind that might've just toppled them over; they whooped; they swapped interlocked arms for tightly-squeezed hands and back again.

i felt you were floating now with them, in a bubble in space, the bubble has a name, ecstasy, keta, speed, coke, that’s the name of the bubble.

Autumn was the season of fire. Boys and houses burned pure white holes into the night, and I self-immolated in every room but the little one I shared with you.

In 1964, I was a college freshman. Someone, I don’t pretend to know who, researched offensive statistics for all Little Leaguers in the New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut area. The unknown

Almost every day, the sitcom actor goes on Instagram to tell his five million followers what he knows about race, class, and - more often than not, women.

1. There is a protective radius of ten feet on all sides of me.
2. I only know the name of one person in this room.
3. My body hair was groomed solely for this moment.

You are standing on an indifferent platform in Preston Station and a little black spaniel is making unbreaking eye-contact with you as he pisses on your leg.

On the first day of my streaming career, I asked Gabe to come over to adjust the lighting design of my “set.”

Maybe you didn’t recognize me, me with longer hair, growing tits, a new name.